


Trefoil and Hyacinth

by Unforth



Series: Writing Prompt Wednesday [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Florist Castiel, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Dean Winchester, POV Third Person Limited, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding Planning, Writing Prompt Wednesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6102610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running the Campbell Historic Home in Lawrence has proved a more satisfying career than Dean ever would have imagined. Now, if only he could get local florist Castiel to see him as more than an opportunity to market his bouquets to affianced couples...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trefoil and Hyacinth

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS GUYS I WROTE A THING AND IT'S ACTUALLY SHORT AND I AM GETTING IT OUT ON TIME AND OMFG I'M SO EXCITED ALL CAPS!!! (though...I had to sacrifice smut to keep the word count from getting ridiculous...I hope y'all can forgive me...)
> 
> This story is written for Writing Prompt Wednesday! THIS WEEKS Writing Prompt Wednesday, no less, I'm not a week plus behind this time!
> 
>  **What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?**  
>  Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or FF.net, or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday! If you cross post to AO3, make sure you add the story to the [Writing Prompt Wednesday Collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Writing_Prompt_Wednesday).  
> This week's theme is _Wedding AUs_.
> 
> You can read more about Writing Prompt Wednesday and see this week's prompts [here](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/post/139905964693/writing-prompt-wednesday-wedding-aus).  
> This week, I chose this prompt:  
>  _Of late, I’ve noticed that the sample bouquets that the florist sends to me for the weddings at my venue have been getting more and more elaborate. It’s great, the couples interested in renting the venue adore them and I’m able to send the florist lots of business, which makes me happy cause, well...it just makes me happy, okay? But really, I know how much these flowers cost, and it can’t be worth it for the florist to keep spending this much on samples..._

“Wow, these are gorgeous,” exclaimed the petite woman. Dean covertly glanced down at his cheat sheet to remind himself of her name: Tamara. She waved her fiancée over. “Look, Isaac, this is exactly what I was thinking, elegant without being ostentatious. Isn’t this bouquet beautiful?”

“They’re very nice,” Isaac agreed. Dean smiled. “Are those lilacs?” Too often he had to grit his teeth because the husbands-to-be were condescending or disinterested, but Isaac’s response was genuine. Working as the proprietor of the Campbell Historic Home in Lawrence hadn’t been his original life plan but Dean liked it a surprising amount, whether he was hosting weddings or working with organizations holding events, parties, or fundraisers at the house. When the couples getting married were obviously in love, the job was especially pleasant.

“Yes,” Tamara inhaled and smiled happily, “and roses and ranunculus and calla lilies…”

“The flowers in the lobby were provided by the Bee’s Bonnet, located at 231 Massachusetts Street in downtown Lawrence,” Dean supplied, eager to cross-promote the florist. “I can provide you with their card, if you’d like.”

“Are they a _required_ vendor, if we want to get married here?” asked Tamara shrewdly.

“No, they’re not,” said Dean. “It’s entirely up to you, we don’t mandate any vendors at the Campbell House.”

“Glad to hear it,” Isaac said, “we’ve got a caterer in mind already, and…” Isaac continued his explanation of their wedding plans as Dean gave them an escorted tour of the large historical house.

Fifteen years ago, the house had been nothing but an empty, derelict property left him by his cousins. He’d fixed it up so that he wouldn’t have to live in a dump, but the recession hit and he lost his job and faced the prospect of the city seizing the property in lieu of his overdue property taxes. It had been Sammy’s idea to transform the house into a venue for special events. Things had been going spectacularly since then. If anyone had told Dean he’d enjoy this line of work he’d have laughed in their face, but every week was something new, he met lots of awesome people, and he earned good money. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

_Well, maybe one thing..._

Blue eyes and dark hair artfully arranged to look haphazard and sloppy flicked through his memory but he pushed the thought aside.

_...nope, I don’t_ need _anything else._

By the time he’d finished showing Isaac and Tamara around, he felt pretty good about the chances that they’d be back. Sure, they hedged their bets as they’d said their goodbyes but they’d been in raptures about the main ballroom, pleased that he wouldn’t require them to use specific vendors, and their faces had lit up identically when he’d told them how much it would cost. Extensive research on his competitors had led him to the price point – higher than many, but lower than the nicest, with the added bonus of freedom and flexibility, though of _course_ Dean could hook them up with some insider discounts if they went with places with which he’d forged relationships.

The couple was his last appointment of the day. Looking around at what he’d built with a broad, satisfied sigh, Dean went to the janitorial closet to get out the cleaning supplies. He wouldn’t shut down for the night and retreat to his bedroom in the attic until everything was spic and span and perfect for the next morning. The smell of lilac suffused the room, though the gorgeous bouquet did make a mess of pollen on the floor. Sweeping up, he wondered at the lavishness of the display. The ranunculus alone were five dollars a stem and there were six of them interspersed with red and pink roses and white lilacs. When Castiel, the proprietor of the flower shop, had first started sending him arrangements they’d been simpler, smaller and less expensive, though no less beautiful. Of late, they’d grown increasing extravagent. Dean referred a lot of business to Castiel but even so it must be a drain on him to produce such displays for free. The last time he’d made a delivery, though, he’d brushed Dean off when Dean had suggested payment. Castiel had the cutest smile on his face, his gorgeous gaze fixed on the ground, as he’d declined, and...

...Dean cut off that line of thinking and focused on cleaning up the pollen.

It didn’t seem fair or right that Castiel was giving him so much for free. Something had to change. The next day, he’d stop by the Bee’s Bonnet and have a talk with the florist. If Castiel wouldn’t take money, maybe he’d let Dean take him out to dinner sometime. Just as a way of saying thank you, of course, nothing else intended. _Plenty more desired, but not damn likely._ Resolution made, Dean vacuumed the main dance floor, repressing the thought of a faint smile and deep blue eyes.

* * *

A knock on the front door pulled Dean from his office first thing the next morning. Hastily setting his coffee down, Dean hurried to answer, pulled the door open and jumped aside as an over-burdened Castiel stepped into the lobby bearing an enormous fresh arrangement of peach dahlias, red poppies and lovely green succulents.

“Woah, what’s the occasion?” asked Dean, laughing, as Castiel looked around, realized there was no place to set the vase and squatted down to place it carefully on the floor.

“It’s been four days,” Castiel replied, rising and going to the table holding the old bouquet. “This is already past its peak. I try to bring two arrangements a week.” There was a critical note in his voice as he examined his own work.

Dean frowned. “Since when?” He could swear he’d only been getting one, aside from when there was an actual occasion necessitating more.

“Since now.” Castiel lifted the old flowers – still good as new as far as Dean was concerned – and the long stems hid his face. All Dean could see peaking over the top was a mop of dark hair. “You send a lot of business my way. I want potential customers to see my best work.”

“That makes sense,” Dean said slowly. Retrieving the arrangement that Castiel had set down, Dean positioned them on the table where the previous display had been as Castiel made his way to the door. “Why won’t you let me pay you, though?”

“It’s nothing, Dean.” Fumbling one-handed for the door knob, Castiel tried and failed to find his way out while most of his view was obscured by flowers. For a dazed moment, Dean stared, a dopey smile on his face as he watched the play of broad shoulder muscles obvious beneath Castiel’s button up shirt, the slight sway to Castiel’s _fine_ ass as he tried to shift the bouquet so he could hold it with only his left arm.

“Oh – crap – let me get that for you,” Dean shook off his distraction and hurried over to help, one hand on the doorknob, the other coming to rest on the curve of Castiel’s lower back. “There ya go,” Dean said, shoving the door open. Castiel didn’t budge, rigid beneath Dean’s touch. _My touch…my hand…holy shit, what am I doing, I…_ He jerked his hand from Castiel’s body as if it burned him – _it_ is _warm, nice and hot, crap, stop Winchester_ – and stepped out of the way.

“Thanks Dean,” Castiel said hurriedly.

“Cas, if you won’t let me pay you for the flowers, maybe I could take you—” Before Dean could finish speaking, Castiel was out the door, bolting for the delivery truck he’d left parked in the driveway. He didn’t look back, didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He was gone before Dean could even step outside to wave him away.

Pulling the door shut, Dean huffed out a deflating breath. _Great job. Fantastic. Now he thinks I’m a total creeper._ Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he returned to the table and positioned the vase just so. Same as every week, there was an invoice in an envelope taped to the vase, and as every week – twice a week now, he supposed – Dean removed it and tossed it into his filing cabinet unopened. The first few had been simple and virtually identicalL a print out of what Castiel had delivered, how many of each type of flowers the bouquet contained, and how much a comparable arrangement would cost if someone were to buy it. Dean only kept them for his records, and on the chance that a couple saw an arrangement they liked and wanted more information about it and needed information that Dean didn’t know off the top of his head.

_So much for asking him to dinner_.

With a sigh, he sank back into his office chair, took a long swig of lukewarm coffee and turned  his attention to his backlog of e-mail.

* * *

“Sweetie, sweetie, like these, this is exactly what I was talking to you about – I want my bouquet to be just like this!” chirped Anne, gazing rapturously as Castiel’s latest creation. True to his word, for three months Castiel had brought two bouquets a week instead of one. Each was magnificent, seasonal, reflecting all the latest trends in bridal florals. It was mid-summer now, but the Campbell Home was booked through the rest of the year; when Dean mentioned that in passing to Castiel, he started bringing bouquets using spring flowers, a reminder of what would be available the following year. Dean tried not to think about how much the off-season arrangements cost and did his damnedest to promote Castiel to every couple that came through the doors.

“That’s nice, pumpkin,” said her fiancée, Mark, his attention fixed on his phone as he typed on the screen. “Make sure you take a few pictures for your inspiration board.”

“Good idea!” She pulled out her cell and fidgeted with it. “Mr. Winchester, what are these ones here, do you know?” She gestured him over and pointed at a cluster of small white flowers drooping beautifully from long, bright green stems. Dean frowned at them, trying to remember, but the name escaped him.

“Let me check for you,” he said, heading for his office. “All the flowers here are done by Castiel Novak at the Bee’s Bonnet. He’s located at...” Calling the information over his shoulder as he went, he dug into his filing cabinet and flipped through the pile of unopened envelopes, looking for the most recent. The only way to tell each apart was a date written in a small, neat hand in the upper corner; Dean had paid so little attention to how he filed the envelopes that they were completely out of order and it took him a couple minutes to find the right one. Grabbing it and one of Castiel’s business cards, he headed back out. Mark was talking on his phone, something about business plans, and Anne was taking a selfie with the flowers. Dean tore open the flap on the envelope and stopped in surprise. Instead of a plain paper print out, within was a card typical of the sort that people sent with flowers. Pale colors made a striped background and stylized clovers circled into a pretty wreath. There was writing in Castiel’s neat handwriting within the wreath.

“ _The trefoil leaves on this card are the same color as your eyes_.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. “Wha—?” With a shaking hand, he took the card out, turned it over, looked for anything else written on it, but it was blank aside from that single line. A second sheet of paper thickened the envelope – the invoice he’d been expected.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” asked Anne.

“Nothing,” Dean managed with a false smile, stuffing the card out of sight. “Nothing at all. Um…” The envelope dropped from his hands as he tried to hold it and unfold the invoice at the same time. _Idiot…it doesn’t mean what you think it means, it could mean anything, it could…who am I kidding, what the heck can it possibly mean? I don’t even know what I_ think _it means, much less what it_ actually _means_. “Let’s see – there’s roses, obviously, and hydrangea, and that one there is a Juliet rose, and, um, that must be lily of the valley.”

_How many envelopes are sitting in my drawer unopened?_

“They’re _beautiful_ ,” gushed Anne. _It must be a mistake. Cas must have delivered the wrong bouquet – this one was meant for someone else, someone with green eyes, someone who paid good money and wrote the note._ “Great, now I know what I want in my bouquet! Honey, I think these lilies would make _perfect_ boutonnieres, too. You’ll have to show your brother and see what he thinks.”

_Whoever was expecting these might be upset that they never arrived. I should call Cas and let him know about his error._

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” Mark answered by rote. Indifference was nearly as hard to watch as outright rudeness was.

_But what if it was meant for me? How many more letters are there?_

Dean itched to get away from Anne and Mark and look at the other cards in his drawer.

_What if he wrote other times? What might he have said?_

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your tour today,” said Dean hurriedly, relieved that the couple hadn’t been particularly nice. He didn’t feel guilty forcing them out quickly. “Here’s the card for the florist, and here’s my card – please get in touch if you have any further questions, we’re here to help!”

“Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” Anne said. She took a few more photos of the lobby, seized her fiancée’s arm and chattered in his ear as they left, his fingers still on his screen.

As soon as they were out, Dean locked the front door so he wouldn’t be disturbed and took broad, hurried strides to his office. In two rough handfuls, he pulled out all the envelopes and dumped them on his desk. Part of him wanted to start opening them immediately, but he forced himself to patience. Hastily, he organized the envelopes by date. Castiel and he had met when they’d worked together on a wedding almost two years ago and they’d forged their business relationship over a year ago. There must be a hundred letters to go through. Once he had them sorted, Dean tried not to get too excited. The chances that it was anything other than a fluke accident were nil.

_Right? There’s no chance there are other messages, right?_

The first dozen or so letters went a long way towards calming Dean’s nerves. They were just as he remembered – invoices – nothing remarkable, nothing interesting. He proceeded through his stack more quickly as he calmed and reason began to reassert itself.

_It’s nothing. The card wasn’t for me. Castiel isn’t interested in me that way. Why should he be? We’ve only ever talked about work. The couple times I’ve tried to bring up anything else..._

The memories of Dean’s lame attempts at asking Castiel out were painfully vivid as only profoundly embarrassing remembrances could be. The time Castiel had slammed his shop door in Dean’s face, supposedly by accident, stood out, and there was the time that Castiel had interrupted to answer his phone on the first ring and managed to transform a thirty second conversation into a string of phone calls that took long enough that Dean couldn’t linger any longer with the least semblance of politeness. There was the time Castiel had tripped down the stairs, and the time he’d pretended to mishear. No, that was unfair. Castiel had definitely _actually_ misheard. Which didn’t make Dean feel any better. After the last time, the day Castiel said he’d be bringing flowers more often, Dean had realized he could no longer pretend that he was getting interrupted by accident. Castiel wasn’t interested and was too nice to say anything. Knowing his attentions were unwanted, Dean had laid off.

The pile was halfway down, Dean hardly paying attention to their contents, when he tore open an envelope and his eye was immediately caught by a card printed with bright flowers in magenta and orange. Hand shaking, Dean pulled it out.

“ _Happy birthday, Dean._ ”

Curious, he pulled out the invoice, trying to remember what bouquet Castiel had sent around his birthday in January. Looking at the list of flowers in it, he remembered it instantly. It had been very unusual: a strange combination of winter and spring foliage that everyone had commented on, prickly deep green holly leaves interspersed with sprigs dangling bright red berries and daffodils in sunny shades of yellow and orange. It had been one of his favorites and Dean had told Castiel so. Instead of seeming flattered, Castiel had crumpled in on himself, cheeks bright red, gaze pinned to the floor; he’d stammered out a good bye and left. Nerves jangling, Dean opened the next letter.

“ _I’m really glad you liked the last bouquet. I hoped you would_.”

After that, there were several invoices with no note, and then,

“ _You looked great in the suit you wore at the wedding last weekend_.”

That was another day Dean remembered, the bride and groom had insisted that, as host, Dean was part of the wedding formalities and so he had to wear an outfit to match their bridal colors. It had been weird and unusual but they’d had the money to buy him a good tailored suit and a silk tie, so who was he to protest? Castiel’s bouquet that week had also been distinctive, bright tropical green foliage, birds of paradise, lilies, and a delicate flower that, according to the invoice, was called protea. The colors had matched those of the wedding perfectly and the couple and their guests had been in raptures.

Every subsequent card had a note. Most were small nothings, or they would have been in any other context than this. Every note made Dean’s heart ache, a tightness growing in his chest the further through the pile he worked.

“ _I noticed you like daffodils, do you like tulips, too?_ ”

“ _Did you know hyacinth are associated with apologies? I’m sorry I’m always so tongue tied._ ”

“ _I’m glad we’re working together so frequently._ ”

“ _Not to presume but I noticed the gardens are a little sparse. I could help with that if you wanted._ ”

So many compliments, so many questions, so many comments, and Dean had never seen them, much less answered a single one. How must Castiel feel? Yet he’d kept bringing flowers, kept sending notes. As Dean read more and more, it made less and less sense to him.

The twisting feeling inside Dean amplified as he laid hands on the letter from the day Castiel had told him he’d start bringing bouquets twice a week. The date had lodged in Dean’s memory, close as it was to his brother’s birthday, and for no reason he could put his finger on he suspected there would be something different in this letter, something to explain why Castiel had started bringing flowers more often.

“ _Would you like to get dinner with me sometime?_ ”

An involuntary gasp escaped Dean, his heart hammering. Hands feeling large and unwieldy, he struggled to open the next one, so eager yet worried he accidentally tore the card and had to hold to ragged edges together to read what Castiel had written.

“ _I’m sorry, I was so nervous, when you put your hand on my back I didn’t know what to say. But I meant it – I would like to get dinner with you. If you wanted. Sorry if my asking makes you uncomfortable_.”

It was the longest note Castiel had sent him and tears pooled in Dean’s eyes, imagining how hurt Castiel must have felt when Dean didn’t answer. Skimming through his memories of May, he tried to recall how Castiel had behaved those subsequent visits. He hadn’t seemed radically different from normal: awkward and shy, adorably so. Seeing him then hadn’t been easy, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about how handsome and sweet Castiel was and how thoroughly Dean had been shot down. He’d been so wrapped up in himself he hadn’t realized Castiel was hurting too.

With difficulty, he made himself open the next one.

“ _I guess I was wrong. I didn’t mean to bother you_.”

“No!” Dean flushed as he realized he’d exclaimed aloud. He itched to grab his cell phone and call Castiel immediately, to apologize and explain himself, but the absurdity of doing so hit him before he could act. The letter was nearly three months old and he still had a pile more envelopes. If the most recent was anything to go by, for some reason Castiel had kept writing, and it would be best if Dean read everything before he called and made a fool of himself.

Nearly a month of old envelopes passed without any more messages, only the invoices. Dean knew immediately when they resumed, he could feel the difference in heft when he picked up the envelope. Ripping it open eagerly, he took in the words written on an Independence Day themed card.

“ _After I dropped off your last order I got to thinking. You’ve never read a single one of these cards, have you?_ ”

Dean choked, laughing helplessly though he couldn’t have explained what was funny. Relief was part of it, and embarrassment. He could imagine Castiel meeting his eyes and saying the words flatly without a hint of surprise or judgment. The hope that had died when he’d read the previous note rekindled. With more lightness of heart than he’d felt since he’d started, Dean tore the next envelope open.

“ _I didn’t think so._ ”

There were maybe a dozen cards left and Dean went through them quickly, humor and happiness growing as he did.

“ _Never wear flip flops, they look ridiculous on you_.”

“ _Did you know that augochloropsis anonyma come to your garden? They’re very unusual bees. There must be a hive near your property._ ”

“ _You wore my favorite tie again today._ ”

“ _It’s strangely liberating to know you’ll never read this_.”

On they went, nearly nonsensical in their randomness. Breathless, Dean finished reading the last one – “ _The orchids in this bouquet look really exotic but they’re grown in a greenhouse in Passaic, New Jersey_ ” – and he threw it aside, grabbed his phone, wallet and keys from his desk drawer and bolted for the door.

Which he crashed into. Tumbling to the ground, he landed hard on his ass, dazed and surprised and not entirely sure what had happened.

_Oh right, I locked it_.

Face throbbing with hot embarrassment, nose and tailbone aching, he picked himself up, unlocked the door, closed up behind himself, and managed a semblance of a sedate pace to his car. The last thing he needed was to get so excited that he got into a serious accident.

The drive into downtown had never seemed longer, the time it took to find parking had never been more infuriating. His efforts took him past Castiel’s shop twice, the sign painted with a large picture of a bumble bee wearing a flowered bonnet and the shop’s name in a whimsical yet practical font. The store front was bright and colorful, an enormous picture window bedecked in beautiful displays that Castiel changed frequently. The second time by, the door opened as Dean went by and a man in a suit emerged carrying a lovely pastel bouquet, Castiel following at his shoulder and speaking, lips quirked in a smile.

_God, he’s gorgeous. How could he think I wasn’t interested? How could I not notice that he was interested? We’re both monumental idiots._

The third time around the block proved the charm; Dean lucked out as someone pulled out just as he went by. He laughed when he caught a glimpse of pink and green and realized it was the man who had bought the flowers from Castiel. Dean parked hastily, embarrassingly far from the curb, flipped the car into park and killed the engine. The moment the dull thrum of the car running cut out, panic set in.

_Shit, shit, what am I doing? What am I going to say? How will he react?_

_Get it together, Winchester. I know he’s interested. Or at least he was interested. And I know I’m interested. Just go talk to him._

With a quavering breath, Dean got out of the car, nearly getting the door ripped off by passing traffic that he hadn’t thought to check for, and walked stiff-backed down the block to the Bee’s Bonnet. A bell rang to announce his entrance as he opened the door. The interior was brightly lit, one side taken up by coolers holding valuable flowers, every other surface covered in vases and flowers pots. The counter was deserted, the door to the back room open.

“Be right there,” called Castiel.

“No hurry,” Dean shouted back, lying flagrantly. _Need to see him right the fuck now..._

“Oh!” Castiel exclaimed from the other room. A moment later he came into view. “Hello Dean.” Castiel’s his head quirked to one side as he blinked at Dean as if he’d never seen before. “How are you today?” Dean couldn’t listen, couldn’t think as he gave his friend the once over. Dark blue eyes, tousled hair, a clean white shirt and tie with a smudged apron over it, a pair of clippers in his hand, every inch from head to toe perfect. “It’s unusual to see you—” Castiel broke off with a squeak as Dean crossed the space between them and wrapped Castiel in his arms hard enough to force the breath from the other man’s lungs. Even stiff and tense, Castiel felt so nice pressed against him. The clippers clattered to the tile floor.

_This is presumptuous, I shouldn’t be doing this, but I have to, I can’t wait any longer, I can’t_.

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathed into Castiel’s ear.

“Dean?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “I read your letters today – I read _all_ your letters today.”

A broken sound escaped Castiel and he slumped against Dean, shaking. “You really didn’t...” Castiel whispered. He trailed off and pressed his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “You really hadn’t...before...you didn’t read _any_ of them?”

“Not a single one,” Dean confirmed, shifting his embrace to press their bodies together more closely. Tears stung at the corner of his eyes as he reveled in how nice Castiel felt against him. Dean didn’t think he’d ever shared a nicer embrace with anyone.

Or so he thought until Castiel lifted his arms and hesitantly wrapped them around Dean’s back, and it got even better.

“I should have said something,” Castiel mouthed against his neck. Erotic warmth seeped through him. “Every time I went to drop of flowers, I said to myself, _this time_ , but I never could. Over the winter I thought you were interested, but in the spring you seemed distant and it was easy to convince myself I was wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong,” said Dean. “I thought I was making you uncomfortable so I stopped flirting.”

Castiel laughed. “You also weren’t wrong. You _were_ making me uncomfortable. God, I suck at this.”

“Yeah, you do,” Dean agreed. Castiel laughed harder, pressing his cheek to Dean’s. Wetness smeared between them; Dean had no idea which of them was crying. Maybe both of them. The whole thing was too absurd and too damn _awesome_. “Hey, Cas...”

“What is it, Dean?”

“Want to get dinner with me?”

Castiel brushed soft lips against Dean’s cheek and a shiver whispered through Dean’s body. “Yes.” A second kiss feathered light over Dean’s chin. “I do.” A third kiss found the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Tonight.” A fourth kiss brought their lips together and Dean breathed a faint, heady moan into Castiel’s mouth. “Right now.” Castiel whispered the words against Dean’s lips.

“Cas, it’s 3 in the afternoon,” murmured Dean, surrendering to another kiss.

“Don’t care,” Cas replied, and then kissed him again, again, their arms working over each other’s backs, their mouths dancing together and apart. Dean’s eyes slipped shut as they found an easy rhythm, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle.

_Fucking wow, this is so much better than I imagined._

The bell over the door jangled discordantly and Dean jerked away, opening his eyes. Castiel’s were open too, blue brilliant and gorgeous and shimmering with wetness and glaring adorable murder at someone standing behind Dean. One of Castiel’s hands jerked to the back of Dean’s head and forced their lips back together. Whoever had just stepped into the store gasped as if scandalized. The aggression, the raw desire of it, was breathtaking and irresistible, and Dean reciprocated despite his embarrassment.

Breaking off the kiss abruptly, Cas snapped, “Come back tomorrow.”. He gave Dean another quick peck, still staring daggers. “We’re closed.” The customer snorted unhappily, the bell rang again, the door slammed shut, and Castiel smiled, all appearance of shyness gone. “Where were we? Oh yeah...best night of our lives. Dinner?”

“Dinner. And maybe after dinner?” suggested Dean, suddenly feeling shy. He’d never expected Castiel to come on so strong, especially after all his hemming and hawing and stuttering. How could this be the same guy who had fricken _tripped down Dean’s front stairs_ when Dean tried to invite him for coffee?

“ _Definitely_ after dinner,” Castiel replied with a broad grin and mischievous wink. Dean swallowed.

Dean had no idea how they could be the same person and he didn’t fricken care.

He was in for one hell of a night.

He couldn’t fricken _wait_.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, for the most up-to-date information on what I'm doing with my writing, or if you just want to get to be friends, follow me on my Tumblr - [unforth-ninawaters](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/).


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